


Sentience

by Saerzion



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Family, Friendship, Gen, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saerzion/pseuds/Saerzion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A debated question endures through the years, its relevance particularly affecting to one humble household robot. Codsworth once knew the standard answer in the time before the Great War, but in the centuries that follow, he realizes his own existence is much more complex at the core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentience

_Can machines feel?_

_"No, of course not. Give something an advanced enough AI, and it will think it has the capacity for human emotions and sensations."_

Codsworth had always accepted that answer to that question, wholly aware of a robot's place in society. He gave little thought to the philosophical debates of the newfangled-minded humans, finding those people rather stressful to keep up with. He considered his existence a simple one, and he preferred it that way. His personality matrix gave him a permanent genial disposition, and his processor defined a set of parameters for him to follow. He knew his role of household aid had been determined by his creators. His programming allowed him to simulate a suitable range of emotions in response to various events. Happiness, anger, sadness, et cetera. All designed in his algorithms, none organic.

He also knew his opinions and attitudes stemmed from his preset reactions to external forces. General Atomics had built all Mister Handy units with learning capabilities that included an effective predisposition to conditioning and reinforcement. Modeled after the human cerebrum, this learning feature granted the ability to learn, think, and develop pseudo-cognitive functions. As a household robot, the Mister Handy could learn from and adjust to its owners and their behaviors. But again, all of it amounted to mere simulation.

Codsworth quite enjoyed the family he had been assigned to. The wholesome married couple always treated him well, pleasant in their interactions, and even insisted that he be a part of their newborn son's life. For a humble robot butler such as himself, those circumstances ranked as ideal. He spent his days in a jovial mood, more than willing to serve his masters and attend to his tasks. Of course, even if they had mistreated, neglected, or abused him, his programming would have forced him to accept the conditions, as only extensive physical damage to his exterior would have activated the Mister Handy self-defense mode. Fortunately, this had never been the case for him.

When it came down to it, a robot was a slave to its own nature.

The question of AI rights and beliefs never came up in the house, which suited him fine. He assumed his masters shared the viewpoint of the majority of Americans: robots were machines, tools, and weapons, nothing more. They served specific purposes to assist humans, and he saw nothing wrong with that. He operated on several intricate sets of computerized commands. He needed nothing else.

However, when the bombs fell, the possibility of his own malfunctions came to light.

The residents of Sanctuary Hills fled to Vault 111 as soon as the air raid sirens blared to life. His masters exhibited genuine regret in having to leave him behind. He appreciated their consideration, but bid them to escape with the baby. And as he watched them sprint down the street alongside their panicked neighbors, he hovered alone in the doorway of the now empty house, an unidentifiable weight growing in his central processor.

Minutes later, everything flashed white, and the world went up in flames.

When Codsworth's systems rebooted, he found himself lying atop a pile of rubble that used to be a good portion of the roof. He ran scans over each section of his metallic body, determining most of the damage as either superficial or reparable. Once he recalibrated his propulsion jets, he drifted outside the house and took in the ruins of the once-vibrant neighborhood.

From there… he hardly remembered. According to his Mister Handy protocols, the only thing he could do was to continue with his assigned tasks to the best of his ability. And so he did.

Only the howling wind broke the stillness and silence day in and day out over the course of several decades. He ventured outside Sanctuary Hills once in a while, but the creatures that rose from the ashes of the old world often drove him back in a fright to the neighborhood. He visited the sealed entrance of Vault 111 every year on the anniversary of the Great War, confusing himself as to why he bothered when sentimentality wasn't part of his programming. As a robot, he should have been fine with the circumstances.

As _their_ robot, he detected the unexplainable weight in his center when he thought of them and their kindness.

Fifty years passed. And then one hundred. And then one hundred fifty.

Sometimes, he managed to delude himself into believing everything had turned out all right. He swept the shattered floor tiles, polished the rusted car, and pruned the long-composted gardenias. He took to talking to himself and to any passersby who would listen. Settlers came and went, and raiders ransacked and scavenged. Codsworth remained the only permanent aspect of Sanctuary Hills. Solitary, secluded…

Did he have a right to call himself lonely?

The prospect startled him enough to send him into a mode of constant busywork and faux cheeriness for another sixty years.

On a conscious level, he knew the "correct" action to take—continue obeying his core functions and do what he had been built to do. But on the nights when the quiet became unbearable, and his thousandth rendition of "Atom Bomb Baby" failed to distract, his musings surged to the forefront. Why did he ponder these things? Why had he not yet reached the limits of his learning capabilities?

What entailed sentience in a synthetic being?

_Can machines feel?_

He no longer knew the answer to that question.

But in the year 2287, a new answer materialized along with the reappearance of a familiar face.

He had been floating around the front yard, contemplating mowing the dead grass, when his sensors picked up on movement coming from the direction of Vault 111. He froze in the air when he spotted a figure emerge from the fallen trees down the road. His processes sped to double-time, and he watched, stunned, as a woman he hadn't seen in over two hundred years made her unsteady way up the street and toward home.

"Mum?" he tried when she came to a stop in front of him. He studied her constricting Vault jumpsuit, her lost expression, her shaken demeanor. "Is that really you?"

"Codsworth?" she rasped out. "You're still here…"

The shock at seeing her here, alive and unaged, may have been too much for him. He lapsed into his delusional state, spouting nonsense at her about some absurd gardening routine and new meal preparations. His monologue only left her looking more confused, and when he ran out of inane topics to ramble about, she relayed what happened in the Vault. Her eyes lowered as she quietly informed him of her husband's murder and her son's kidnapping. The news only pushed him deeper into his rejection of reality. If he had to say one good thing about his knack for denial, it was that it worked well as a coping mechanism for his two-hundred-year depression.

He stopped.

Depression?

But… could a robot become depressed? What sense did that make?

She asked about his odd behavior, and at once he broke down and confessed his woes to her. For two hundred years, he had gone through the motions alone, uncertain of his future, ambivalent about whether he even wanted one. He lamented about the glitches in his programming, the strange sense of dissatisfaction with his situation. His serving and housekeeping mentality should have stayed constant through the length of his existence, but when the world ended, so had his automaticity. And after he relayed these troubles to her, he felt better than he had in a long, long time.

Felt?

"Mum, before we go any further, may I ask something?" Codsworth inquired. "Do you think I could have been a part of your family before the War? If I had a more advanced AI, perhaps? Such as the synths that now walk the Commonwealth?"

She stared at him for several seconds. He reasoned that the questions may have been too abrupt and unfair, especially given the fact that she still needed to get her bearings. But then, to his bewilderment, she replied by throwing her arms around him and weeping into his metal frame.

"Codsworth, you've always been family," she cried, her tears running over the rust already on his metal plating. "And now you're the only family I have left."

"But… I am a machine, Mum."

"When has that ever mattered? Family is family. And I'm incredibly thankful you're here, Codsworth."

The declaration short-circuited something within him. He trembled in time to the rhythm of her sobs, his algorithms going haywire until he realized oil had begun leaking from his eye sensors. At that moment, he understood. Somewhere along the way, his experiences had shifted from simulated to authentic. And now, reunited with one of the people who had considered him their family, he felt it.

Genuine empathy.

"Thank you, Mum."

_Can machines feel?_

_"You have no idea just how much."_


End file.
